Chapter 9 Eli #2
I grin, shaking my head, but his words make something warm curl low in my stomach.
We slide into easier conversation after that—about my family, holiday traditions, little scraps about our hometowns we haven’t traded before.
It feels dangerously natural, as though we’re not just two guys killing time over burgers but… something else.
I talk about how my mom always buys those ridiculous Christmas pajamas for the whole family, making us all pose for pictures, and he actually smiles at the image. When I nudge him for one of his own, he shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, but there’s a flicker in his eyes before he answers.
“Nothing big. We used to do these cookie-decorating contests every year,” he says, voice casual. “Total chaos—sprinkles everywhere. My sister would cheat by eating half the frosting.”
“Used to?” I ask, curious, but he’s already busying himself with his fries.
His jaw tightens just a fraction. “Yeah.” He says it like a period; that’s all I get. Then he tosses me a quick glance and forces a half-smile. “What about you—any weird Starling family rituals I should know about, besides matching PJ’s?”
I catch the shift, the way his voice shutters down, and for a second, I want to push. But I don’t. Because he gave me a piece of himself just now, even if it was small. So, instead, I tuck it away quietly, a secret I’m meant to hold.
I take a big bite of my burger, trying to chase away the sudden weight in my chest, and probably make a mess of it because Max’s eyes flick toward me in this sharp, assessing way. Running over my face in a way that makes me want to squirm in my seat.
“You, uh…” He gestures vaguely toward his own face. “You’ve got something.”
Before I can even grab a napkin, he reaches across the table and swipes his thumb along my cheekbone. The touch is quick, thoughtless—reflexive—but it lands like a live wire, jolting through me.
I freeze, mid-chew, staring at him as though he just flipped the whole damn world upside down.
His thumb’s already gone, but the ghost of it lingers on my skin, burning hot.
Fuck. If I make more of a mess, will he lick it off?
Whoa, don’t go there, Starling. Still, my heart kicks up, and I’m tempted to try.
“Got it,” he says casually, pretending he didn’t just knock the air straight out of my lungs.
“Uh. Thanks,” I manage, my voice coming out rough. Not a date. Definitely not a date. Then why the hell does it feel like one?
My skin still tingles where his thumb brushed me; my nerve endings don’t know how to shut up about it.
It wasn’t even a big deal—just a smudge of food, gone in a second—but my body doesn’t seem to care about logic.
My pulse hammers, my palms go clammy, and I can’t stop replaying it on a loop.
The way he didn’t hesitate, how he looked right at me, steady, as if wiping something off my cheek was the most natural thing in the world.
I shove another fry in my mouth, hoping salt and grease can drown out the thought that maybe, maybe he doesn’t see this as just killing time either.
Except then he’s back to eating, calm as ever, and I’m left wondering if I imagined the heat in his eyes earlier, if the roller-coaster drop in my stomach was all me.
Get it together, Starling. You’re reading too much into it.
I keep the banter going where I can, letting him carry us into safer topics, laughing a little too loudly when he says something dry. It feels like the only way to keep from giving myself away.
When the waitress circles back, I don’t even think. “French silk pie and a black coffee,” I say, flashing her my best grin. “To go.”
Max shakes his head, amused, but doesn’t say a word this time. Which might be worse. I barely notice the waitress leave and return with my pie and a to-go cup of coffee for Max.
The check lands on the edge of the table, and before I can even reach for my wallet, Max has it in his hand. Smooth. Like he already decided.
“Hey—” I start, but he just raises a brow, that steady look that dares me to argue.
“I’ve got it,” he says, sliding his card across without hesitation.
My stomach flips. He didn’t even blink. Not friends grabbing dinner. Just…him paying.
“That’s very…date-like of you, Calder,” I murmur, leaning back in the booth, letting my grin go sharp.
He smirks, green eyes flicking up to mine. “Call it a holiday gift. Don’t get used to it.”
But his foot nudges mine again under the table, slow, deliberate, and my heart does that roller-coaster drop all over again.
I grab my to-go pie, gripping it as if it’s a lifeline, but it doesn’t stop the thought burning in my head. Not a date. Not a date. Not a—
Yeah. Sure. This is a fucking date. Even if he doesn’t admit it. And I’m going to kiss him. Even if he pushes me away, I will regret it if I don’t try.
We step out into the night, and the cold air slaps me right in the lungs, stealing the breath from me for a moment.
The snow’s coming down heavier now, soft flakes catching in Max’s dark hair, melting against the slope of his cheek.
I loop the pie handle over my wrist and shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out and brushing them away.
The diner door swings shut behind me, leaving Max and I in that muffled quiet only snowstorms can pull off. It’s eerie and peaceful all at once, as if the world has folded down to just us.
His shoulder brushes mine as we fall into step on the shoveled path. Too close to be accidental. My stomach is a knot of sugar, nerves, and want.
He doesn’t say anything for a few beats, just takes a long pull from the to-go cup in his hand, breath fogging the air. “Thanks for dinner, Starling. I needed that.”
God, his voice. Warm and rough, letting me see a part of him that he doesn’t show most people. I look at him, at the cut of his jaw, the pink on his cheeks from the cold, and my heart pounds.
I’m going to kiss him. I just need—hell, I don’t even know. Maybe I don’t need a moment. Maybe this is the moment.
The path is empty, just us and the snow falling softly around the glow of the lampposts. My chest is tight, my pulse is hammering, and every step feels as though it’s carrying me closer to something I can’t walk back from.
Max slows, glancing over, and our eyes catch.
Just a flicker, but it’s enough to stop me cold.
He looks unfairly hot like this—dark hair sticking out and mussed from his beanie, lashes catching snow, that careful strength in the set of his shoulders, always braced for the next hit. And still, somehow, he’s here. With me.
I don’t think. I can’t. My heart leaps first, my body follows.
I step in front of him, blocking the path, my breath clouding the air between us. “Max.”
His brow furrows, about to ask what’s wrong, but I don’t give him the chance. I grab the front of his jacket and pull him down into me.
The kiss crashes between us—warm and desperate and a little clumsy at first. My pie dangles from my wrist, probably ruined with all the jostling, but this is way better than sugar.
His mouth moves against mine, sure and steady, as though he was only waiting for me to close the distance.
His hand comes up, cupping the side of my neck, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, and the world tilts.
Snow swirls around us, glittering under the lamplight. My toes go numb, the cold biting at my fingers where they clutch the paper bag, but none of it matters. Not when my other hand is fisted in the front of his jacket, holding him close.
None of it matters. Not when he’s kissing me back. Not when I feel him smile against my mouth, like maybe he wanted this too.
I break for air, breathless, my forehead resting against his. “So…” I whisper, my voice shaking but lighter than it’s been in weeks. “Guess that answers the date question.”
He huffs a laugh, low and warm, his thumb still stroking my skin as if he can’t help it. “Yeah, Starling. Pretty sure it does.”